I recently received a £2 voucher from a supermarket after complaining vociferously about the poor quality of their own-brand Rich Tea biscuits, which I spent on more tasty, tasty biscuits. Tell us about your trivial victories that have made life a tiny bit better.

A little victory for the Polo company.
A while ago, the people who make Polo mints brought out a promotional product called "Polo Holes", the idea being that these small mints were the bits that were stamped out of the middle.www.cazphoto.co.uk/wp-content/blogs.dir/3/files/2008/04/D366_101.jpgAs a schoolboy at the time, I was tasked for english homework to write a letter of complaint. I chose to complain about polo holes as the definition of a hole is a cavity; nothingness so by that measure the packet should be empty. How disappointed I was to find these white things in the packet. I promised not to take the case to trading standards if they sent me a years supply. Genius. Well written letter, no harm done. Except teacher decided to mail it.

Several days pass and I receive an unexpected parcel at home. Inside was a wholesale packet of polo tubes with one noticable difference:All the packets were empty. Yes, EMPTY! The gist of the enclosed letter basically said: Sorry for your disappointment, we'd hate to fall below your expectations again, so we've enclosed a sizeable supply of your definition of "holes". Dont eat them all at once!
(sunray18, Tue 15 Feb 2011, 18:18,
19 replies)

Late night drag racing in Essex
Back in the days of yuppies and affordable petrol, before anyone had ever heard of global warming, I used to drive a clapped out Jaguar XJS, wanting something a bit classier than the usual loutish essex boy racer cars of my contemporaries.

At about 3am I'm driving home from London after a long night at work, and I pull up at a set of lights on the outskirts of Romford. There are 3 lanes, me in the middle, and on my left a proper Essex wide boy, in a silver Porsche 911. He starts revving his engine like mad, and inching forward in stops and starts, and shouting something at me (god knows what, I couldn't hear it over his engine, but it was clear he's going to race me no matter what, and wipe the floor with my sedate V12 cruiser). I look over to my right, where there are two young-ish blokes in a fairly fast looking Ford Sierra. With a tip of my head, I indicate the Porsche driver, and with a barely imperceptible nod, the passenger shows he understands perfectly.

A few tense adrenalin-filed moments pass before the light goes amber. Either side of me, I hear squeals of tyre smoke. I, however sit there, until the amber turns to green, and then push the accellerator, gently, wafting off into the night to the strains of the BBC world service. The Porsche spins it's wheels and heads for the horizon at an insane pace. The Sierra also waits a moment, and in that moment, the passenger breifly tips his hat to me, before it too zooms into the night with as much zest and urgency as the Porsche, but with slightly more blue flashing lights on top.
(Andy_RAt the third stroke, the time will be precisely, Fri 11 Feb 2011, 12:25,
13 replies)

Sweet Transvestite
My school had a "sponsored walk" thing every year to help raise money and stuff for stuff that probably wouldn't be bought until the kids who raised money for it had left (i.e. ME). We were encouraged to do the walk in fancy dress for the hell of it, which made it more bearable.

About a week before said sponsored walk, one of my best friends decided to come out as gay (Last weeks of Year 11 and all that) and got mocked to shit by the tards you'd probably expect. Various insults pertaining to cross-dressing and being a "Batty" were thrown about, and he was the shyest person I've ever met (Took me nearly a month to get a complete sentence out of him) - the bullies just thought they could get away with it because he'd never say anything to the teachers due to his almost non-existent self confidence.

Me and a few other friends had an idea that would be A) Funny as fuck and B) Good to try and get back at the bullies in our typical passive-aggressive way, misfits that we were.

Day of the sponsored walk, the five of us turned up to school in full Rocky Horror gear. Magenta and Riff-Raff (Me) in those weird space suit outfits from the end of the film, along with Rocky, Columbia and Frank-N-Furter (My gay friend) to be precise.

The looks (and cheers) we got were fantastic, and Frank-N-Furter flirted with the bullies from afar for a laugh at first, because they hadn't realised it was a guy in that corset. So when they happily sauntered over thinking it was one of the various bints in our year, my friend screamed "SURPRISE!" in their faces as he pulled off the wig to their looks of absolute horror at what they had just done. In front of about 30 other people in the school. The rumours spread like wildfire.

I guess giving them a taste of their own harassing medicine may not be much of a victory, but it was the most fun I'd had up until then.

Note: An undisclosed amount of alcohol may have been ingested prior to leaving "Frank's" house in our get-ups, mostly in the cases of Rocky and Frank, who wanted a bit of liquid confidence. Probably explains why we were so loud that day. "Frank" is no longer as shy as he was, and his 18th a few weeks ago raised him to new levels of courage (and loudness). Good for him, I say.
(TrogdosThe Raging Cuntmuffin, Sun 13 Feb 2011, 17:44,
16 replies)

Bunch of irritating "lad" wankers on the train home from Lancaster one evening.
Drinking, being loud and obnoxious on an otherwise peaceful carriage, and generally getting right on my tits - and me without my iPod to drown out the aggravation of the surrounding world.

Then it happened.

I had eaten a rather large curry almost immediately before getting onboard and the rocking of the train, coupled with my penchant for eating more than I probably should at curry houses was making me feel a little uncomfortable.

In order to relieve the pressure, I released a very long, but ultimately silent fart. Sort of like a digestive trephining if you will. The kind that makes it feel like your arse is a release valve opened half way.

A moment or two later and I dared to inhale the air to assess the damage. Strange. I couldn't smell anything at all, when I had been preparing myself to quickly get up and head to another carriage in order to avoid the subsequent accusatory glares. "I've got away with it" thinks I.

Then, the moment of my victory:

One of the obnoxious wankers sat further down the train suddenly goes "Jesus christ! Is that you???" pointing at his mate sat opposite, who immediately denied all knowledge.

"I bet it fucking was you. You never own up, you smelly cunt."

"It fucking wasn't!"

At which point his mates got a whiff and all turned on him.

"Jesus christ, you smelly bastard!! You fucking always do that!"

"IT WASN'T FUCKING ME!!!"

The conversation went on like this, getting more and more heated until it actually became an argument, with the accused eventually telling his mates that he was "fucking sick of them" and that he didn't know why he hung around with them because all they did was take the piss.

I don't know how it had happened, but the fart seemed to leave my backside, creep under at least 5 rows of seats without any of the other passengers noticing, and popped it's head up directly under the table of the irritating pricks, like some sort of gobshite-seeking arse missile.

The rest of the journey was spent with them sitting in awkward silence, contemplating their friends sudden outburst, not really knowing what to say to the guy who was now sitting in a huff staring out of the window.
(PMGT-Bacon., Thu 10 Feb 2011, 17:53,
6 replies)

My gran vs International law
Kind of relevant so I'll go ahead anyway, sod you all!

My gran, RIP, was a dainty wee Scottish lass who wouldn't harm a fly. We were dropping her off at the airport to see her daughter, my aunt, in Germany. Alas she had forgotten her passport and an awkward, heart-breaking silence ensued. Even the airline ticket officer looked gutted.

Moments later my gran, all 4ft 9in of her, pulled out her bus pass, "Och mi dear - I've got mi bus pass if that's Okaaaye?". You could actually see the airline officer melt and she was straight on the phone to various people - English and German - before finally announcing, with a beaming smile, that the bus pass would indeed be fine and that the German authorities would be happy to welcome her on that basis!

A nice little tale to bring on the weekend? Certainly nice to know that there are some nice people out there. Bear in mind this was about 20yrs ago, when border control was much tighter... my gran got to Germany and back.... on her bus pass
(Mean Mad Mutski, Fri 11 Feb 2011, 14:26,
15 replies)

I work in McDonalds (yeah I know)
One particularly quiet morning a policeman came in who the previous week had arrested me on a bullshit charge. Despite my polite protestations, he continued being a dick an kept me in for the night. I hadn't even been drinking and the charge was dropped "no further actioned" after my interview. He recognised me after placing a c£15 order for breakfast, I assume for him and his chums in the station. I greeted him with sarcastic shitty comments and went of to cook his breakfast.

Now it would be no good to contaminate the food with germs filth and disease. Or spit. I'm just not that vindictive. And in all honesty, i've never seen anyone do this to any food in any McDonalds - Ever.

Instead, I disregarded all the food i had been holding, and took the extra time to prepare everything fresh. Freshly cooked eggs, sausage, bacon. Crisp tasted muffins, the works. Everything put together perfectly and with the panache required of a Jamie Oliver cookery show. Egon Ronay himself would've eaten it after watching me prepare it. The police deserve the finest food with the finest ingredients!

As it was quiet, I took the effort to go round, help bag up the order and present it in the nicest possible way to the offending officer, with a sickening smile and have a nice day! He nervously took the order and politely said thank you before departing.

I figured he'd do one of two things. He'd send the whole lot away for analysis, (with the hope of bringing another charge) or check everything and really not enjoy eating any of it.

He surprised me by binning it outside and looking back at me smiling, as if to say "I'm not falling for that one!".

"You can't park your motorbike there, you idiot!"
Just last night I rocked up to Tesco to buy some food. I parked right by the shop, stepped off the bike and started taking my helmet and gloves off.

At which point I was accosted by a very irate man. "WHATTHEHELLDOYOUTHINKYOUREDOING?""Sorry?""Damn right you should be sorry! You can't park there, it's bloody dangerous, you're on the path! And what makes you so special? Why don't you park in the car park like everyone else?""...""Come on? What have you got to say for yourself?"

At which point I pointed at the floor. To the words 'Motorcycle Parking'. In two-foot high letters.
(MiraclefishHow appropriate, you fight like a cow, Mon 14 Feb 2011, 15:41,
7 replies)

Fat wanker
A few years ago I was visiting Ye Olde London Towne to see one of my friends, who had recently bought a new flat.

Said flat was somewhere in the sticks, so once I had suitably "oohed" and "aahed" at her interior decorating we decided to hop on the tube and wander around central London for a bit.

Unfortunately, there was some kind of football match going on, meaning the trains were crammed with supporters of the bald head/fat beer belly kind. Pretty sure they were wearing blue - so perhaps Chelsea? Either way I fucking hate football - sorry. Mostly because of twats like these.

So - we squeezed ourselves in right by the doors, we didn't take up much room being relatively small ladies among a sea of straining lard, who were all loudly swearing/singing/being general cunts to the rest of the commuters. Not one person dared say anything to them, despite the spilling of beer over people's clothes and the various borderline racist/sexist/homophobic things they were saying.

Being right by the doors meant that every time the train pulled into a stop we would have to press ourselves into the glass partition to let people on/off. Being extremely polite it involved lots of "oof, sorry, terribly sorry, oh that's ok, no problem" etc etc, despite being elbowed, shoved and crushed by the football supporters.

Finally, the train stopped at the destination at which most of these neanderthals decided they wanted to depart. They all heaved their heavy, sweaty frames past us, stomachs straining under their poorly fitting polyester.

I felt a sharp pain in my side as one of them, a particularly lovely specimen in his 50s with a bunch of his mates, caught me with his fleshy elbow. He barely looked at me as he said:

"Sorry lahv"

I grimaced in response, and was astounded to then hear him say in a particularly smug tone (as he stepped off the train with the rest of them):

"But you might wanna wait until everyone's off before you try getting on the train, alright lahv?".

I HATE being called "love", especially by utter fucktards like this. I also double-hated the fact that he had admonished me for something which I hadn't actually been guilty of, and I triple-hated the fact that this was after a nightmare journey with a train full of bell-ends like him.

I watched him start to saunter away with his fat friends and the rest of the fuckers. I looked at the rest of the commuters breathing a sigh of relief that they had all gone. The rage rose within me.

"ACTUALLY" - I shouted after him (my face turning red to match my sundress - this was how girly I looked that day):

"We were ALREADY on the train........YOU FAT. FUCKING. PRICK!"

The look on his face as he turned around was absolutely priceless, as was the laughter of his friends and most of the football crowd. The other commuters also started sniggering.

His face turned purple as the train doors started to close, and I gave him my girliest of waves followed by the middle finger as the train started to pull away.
(posageAs I turned the corner I felt muscular and compact, Sun 13 Feb 2011, 11:15,
9 replies)

Alpha male and all that
A few years ago, I was out in newcastle with some friends. After a few to many drinks and no luck with the ladies, we decided it was time for a kebab.

It turned out alot of people fancied mechanically recaptured lamb meat pound into a cylinder then cooked under a heat lamp and shaved. A queue had formed, so being a polite kind of guy, I waited. By the time I got to the front, I'd been volunteered to buy a few peoples food while they got us a seat. All was well untill in walks a fellow who decided he was better then the rest of us and got to go first in the queue.

Resplendent in his finery (shitty tracksuit bottoms and umbro jumper) he barged in, pushing and shoving until he was at the counter. There was a little timib looking woman beside me, she looked frightened and upset at having been barged aside. King of the queue turned and looked at me, laughed at me and said "Get a shave mate!" (I have a small beard and moutach combo similar to Jonny Depp).

Sighing, I looked forward, thinking "Do you want to try talking to me like that again?" only I didn't think it, I said it. "You what mate?" he asks looking supprised."Do you want to fucking try talking to me like that again?" I asked in a calm, surprisingly sober sounding voice. I'm not a tough guy, not a fighter, 6' tall average build and fairly camp, yet I struck fear into his polyester clad heart. "Eh, nah, your allright mate." he said before scampering off without and food.

All eyes were on me suddenly, the timid woman smiled her thanks, kebab man nodded his gratitude, I stood and slowly unclenched every muscle in my body, I couldent belive I'd gotten away with acting like the big man, in a fight, I'd have been very good at catching punches with my face, and little else, yet there I stood, like batman of the cheap take away, thugs and villains tremble at my very name, the good people sat safe and unintimidated to enjoy thier meals.

Drugs? No officer.
I'm 19. I have long hair. I am flouncing down the street in Kingston Upon Thames. It is 1992. I have a cold. I blow my nose and put the snotty hanky in my pocket just as i turn a corner. A police van full of Met coppers are watching me. As i pass the van, one says, "Oi! Hippy..What did you just put in your pocket?". "A snotrag" i reply. "Empty your pockets" says he. I do. I hand him my very full snotrag. He opens it up , obviously hoping to find a kilo of cocaine. It's all my green snot. He tries to hand it me back. I say, "I don't want it" and walk off. All his copper mates are howling at him as he's left with a handful of my warm wet bogeyjuice. My finest hour.
(inactionman, Fri 11 Feb 2011, 0:30,
6 replies)

Rich Tea Woe
This is the actual letter - word-for-word - that I sent to the Co-Op:

Dear the Co-op

I am writing to inform you of the unpleasant - yes UNpleasant experience I have suffered following the purchase of a 300g packet of Co-operative Rich Tea Biscuits. You know: The red packet with the comedy 'serving suggestion' picture of several so-called 'Rich Tea' biscuits sitting wanly on a plate in the middle distance.

Rich Tea? VERY POOR TEA, more like.

Within two days of purchasing your product, I should inform you that I have suffered the indignity of soggy Rich Tea biscuits snapping in half and falling into my otherwise excellent beverage with only the briefest of dunkings - thus completely wrecking my tea break - on no less than three occasions.

You have no idea how angry this makes me, but I'll tell you: A LOT. No man should be forced to live with the affront and humiliation of soggy biscuit defeat through the complete tectonic failure of what I wrongly thought were an acceptable Rich Tea purchase. On THREE occasions. I'm so cross I can't even go to the toilet properly.

Subsequent cuppas were made of tea, water, milk, HATE and FURY, and tasted much as you'd expect. For eg: TERRIBLE.

In order to get any pleasure from dunking my Rich Teas, each biscuit has to be individually wrapped in cling film first to ensure structural integrity before they are inserted into the tea. Hardly adding to the biscuit experience, I can tell you for nothing.

We have also experimented with dunking two biscuits at once, but we find the staples and glue get stuck in the poor, dead biscuit taster's throat and we're left with the all-too-common 'Dump another body round the back of the industrial estate' problem that has plagued serious biscuit testing down the years.

Clearly, there is a design fault which your highly-paid snack food boffins should address with all due urgency. May I suggest the EU Standard Baked Biscuits, Confectionery and Cake Stress Procedure (2003), which your product has quite clearly failed?

Sort it out, and make it (oh-ho!) snappy. And if you're planning on sending me free biscuits, make sure they're good ones, and not wafer-thin Rich Teas made out of structurally suspect biscuit stuff and the tormented souls of the dead.

Your pal

Albert O'Balsam

---- oooOOOooOOooo passage of time ooooOOOoooOooo ----

And their reply (somewhat paraphrased)

Dear Mr O'Balsam,

We're sorry to hear about your recent biscuit-related woe at the hands of a packet of shoddy Co-op Rich Teas.

Please accept our apologies, our pledge that all biscuits will be individually stress tested as per EU regulations, and some vouchers.

Your pals,

The Co-op.

Yeah, I got one over the Co-Op and I understand it's the equivalent of punching a baby. Sorry.
(ScaryduckLIKES EGG, Thu 10 Feb 2011, 12:32,
12 replies)

the bewildered and the damned
Feeling you haven’t so much beat the system but you have at least poked it in the eye can really make your day – little moments where you feel ever so slightly ahead of the game.

Missing trains fascinates me. If I’m on the train sitting waiting for it to trundle off and a group of commuters miss it, if it’s in a busy station there is a very visible and collective reaction of ‘awfirfucksake’ quickly followed by ‘fine, so it’s a ten minute wait, see if I care’. However a lone traveler at a quiet outlying station missing a train becomes a tragedy of epic proportions. Maybe its because there’s usually a much longer wait for the next train, or maybe if your on your own its suddenly ‘your train’ the only hope. One of my favorite Fast Show skits showed a family desperately battering along in holiday attire dragging bags and cases –nothing was ever explained, no resolution was offered, nor required. As much as I could identify with their plight I was also happy to mock.

Aside from the schadenfreude (oh come on – you could be the nicest person alive but there is a certain smug pleasure in sitting on the very train some sad tardy schmuck has just missed. It’s the same as seeing someone in a suit soaked by a lorry rampaging through a puddle).

I used to commute from a wee rural station in Lanark to Glasgow. I’m always late. Maybe not so much late but I tend to cut it finer and finer until finally the luck runs out. There’s another small pleasure – strolling onto a train just as the doors start beeping. “Fuck yeah I’m cool” Although to be honest it was more often a very undignified dash where only the victory steps were strolled. Adults shouldn’t run. Not unless there are trophies involved. Particularly if you are in any way overweight or out of shape or are carrying a bag. You just look like a tit.

Over time I noticed there are three basic types of missed train melodramas.

1. Injustice: “How could this happen?” (The doors are sealed and its pulling away) “Oh no it can’t be true – all is lost” coupled with a look of tragic bewilderment.

3. Blame: “Oh well fucking done! You knew what time you had to be here and you fucked it up. Can’t even get on a bloody train on time. Well fucking thank you”.

Which brings me to my point. One day I dashed up the escalators to the low level trains at Argyle Street in Glasgow – is it just me or is it odd you descend one escalator then have to go back up another escalator to get to the platform?

I heard the doors beeping as I got to the top of the escalator. There was a throng of Denials and a few Blamers in front of me. The doors had started to close. The Injustice brigade had already started looking to each other for some sense to it all. A few had already begun tying yellow ribbons around the benches.

Not today I thought! I pushed through the fallen and bewildered and grabbed the closing doors. They didn’t stop closing.

Fuck.

Determined, I hopped onto the doorstep and for some reason began to Samson style, heave the doors apart. Suddenly I was a superhero tearing open an impregnable vault – steel plate ripping apart like wet paper. The smug brigade on the train mere inches from my face looked at me through the door windows wryly.

“Daft fucker’s missed his train”

But then a marvelous thing – the doors gave up. Folded, or more so unfolded. As I casually stepped into the newly conquered carriage, the doors snapped shut behind, leaving the bewildered and the damned on the platform – excluded and bereft.

In true Glasgow style a bloke casually turned to me and said:

“So how do you get aff mate – through the roof?”

That day I was (slightly) ahead!
(spimf™ is whoever you want him to be, Fri 11 Feb 2011, 12:38,
7 replies)

Last Christmas eve
I wound up in hospital with my dad (long and VERY amusing story for another post) and while we're waiting for him to get some stitches to his leg (really, it's a long story) he whispers to me with a grin, for such is the way of my dad."I really need to fart"Just then the ambulance guys deliver a morbidly obese guy who had torn a ligament in his arm when he fell to the curtained off bed next to us.He's in a bit of pain and moaning, so they install him in the bed and walk off to fill out paperwork.Dad winks at me, lets rip and it's LOUD.All eyes in the emergency room turn and look straight at the fat guy.
(difficultchild, Sat 12 Feb 2011, 21:52,
4 replies)

Lift magic!
at work I occasionally take the lift down from the fifth floor. The fifth floor lift door has an iffy switch so you have to sort of 'encourage it' shut or it just opens and closes ad infinitum...

I was stuck in there with a woman with the lift doors doing their thing and so I said 'excuse me' and gave the doors 'an assist' she was very impressed with this and with a smile I said 'I didn't always used to be in I.T.' she replied with 'Oh, you used to actually fix things then?'This pissed me off somewhat and so when I had reached my destination I pretended to fiddle with the lift doors, and when leaving, turned to the lady and said 'These doors will never open again'. I could see this sink in on her face as I was rewarded with a look of rising panic between the slowly closing doors...

"Not me, but a friend"
Not so much a 'little' victory, and indeed not even my victory, but still a tale that deserves telling I feel.

Got a call last Friday from a mate who, sounding quite sorry for himself, explained that on the previous night he had gotten right royally smashed on a combination of booze and various drugs and in a foggy haze had gambled his last £50 away on an 11 bet accumulator on Ladbrokes. Upon looking at the betting form the following morning he realized he didn't even recognise half the teams and had obviously just picked a load of random results, essentially throwing away fifty English pounds.

Anyway, for my first post, my dad died just before xmas. While we were sorting through his things we found an unpaid utility bill. I sent a grumpy letter to the power company to explain the situation and quoted their customer charter back at them. A week or so later they replied and said that they were going to write off the bill, and also that they weren't previously aware that my dad's last two addresses were part of sheltered housing accommodation complexes. They are now. Power companies are required by law to make special provision for vulnerable customers, such as older people who may only have small pensions to live off. This was too late for my dad but hopefully it'll make a difference to the 40 - 50 other people living there.
(mhoulden, Sun 13 Feb 2011, 3:21,
4 replies)

How I claimed victory in a trivial argument
Mrs SLVA was determined to be in a mood with me about something silly and insignifcant. I can't remember what she'd said, but my response involved hooking an ankle sock on to my chin and then declaring "Well I don't care, because I'm Pharaoh".

Bonk.
You know those people who, when you're wandering along a pavement in town, seem to be doing their utmost to walk into you, so they can enjoy the satisfaction of having a little huff about how you were IN THE WAY, or whatever it is that happens to be the designated winning move in the bizarre game they're playing?

Well, a couple of weeks ago I was wandering through a covered walkway when a youngish bloke speared off from his original direction of travel at a 45 degree angle. Destination: square of pavement I was about to occupy.

Ever helpful, I stepped to one side and stopped. He altered his vector back to intercept. I stood where I was. The other guy approaches, making it as clear as it possibly can be that only one of us is going to be taking avoiding action, and that's going to be me.

At the last minute, I do so. Being forced to stand aside does not make me unhappy, though. In fact, my mood was measurably improved by the encounter, particularly the soft fleshy thump of someone faceplanting the brick pillar I'd been standing in front of.
(Timberwolf, Fri 11 Feb 2011, 23:30,
Reply)

Precis: Long tale of drunken chatting up ends in a little win.
I should say here that I'm not exactly great with chatting up girls in pubs/bars/clubs. When a bit pissed I either treat girls I fancy like dirt (like a smitten 8 year old stealing his heart’s desire’s toys) or come on all over the top friendly / chatty and they think I’m gay. Luckily for me the future Madame ESP met me sober…

But this is a tale from before the days of monogamy, at a friend’s birthday drinks many summers ago. The girl… let’s call her RODA. She was half Persian half English so had a delightful tan and rather a pretty face as well. I kept accidentally staring down her top, due to the excessive cleavage on display. All in all, a perfect drunken target. We got talking and she didn’t think I was gay. I didn’t insult her heritage, gender, religion or dress sense. It was all going well until I realised she was fucking boring and dull as grey paint. Still, after five or six pints I wasn’t going to throw away my groundwork on a minor issue… I was going to get laid!

RODA and I went with the pack of revellers to a really scummy club where the music was thankfully too loud for conversation. RODA decided that this was a good excuse to stick her tongue down my throat and I agreed wholeheartedly. We danced to Bon Jovi and other masters of cheese and after a couple of hours I did that universal ‘let’s go have sex’ gesture by tilting my head at the door and looking suggestive. RODA agreed it was time to go. I was getting laid, for sure!

We walked back to mine, which goes past a little riverside park, and RODA decided she wanted to see the river. We sat on a little bench, staring out at the Thames, and of course things happened. Clothes start getting shed and all was going swimmingly (by that I mean I hadn’t drunk myself flaccid, and also I was about to get alfresco sex) when she brings up her religion. She’d mentioned that she was a member of a Persian faith with some odd beliefs. She waits until this exact semi-undressed moment to tell me that she can’t have sex before marriage. I wanted to cry. The awesome self control I’d exerted in not acting like a bellend; the dancing, the jokes; the not telling her she was dimmer than an energy saving light bulb were all for nothing.

I’d frozen mid-grope and was deciding how best to abandon her at the nearest bus stop when she told me something I’ll never forget:

“Oh, it’s ok, I’m still allowed to do anal.”

I think that counts as a little victory.
(ElectricSexPantswould like to be the Sultan of something, Fri 11 Feb 2011, 14:20,
26 replies)

Last Christmas.
I was on a long train journey from Chesterfield to Aberystwyth. That's about five hours of travelling, three and a half of them spent on Arriva Trains Wales. If you've not travelled by ATW, here's what you need to know: timekeeping by Dodgy Ioan's Discount Rolex, upholstery and fittings by Davies Brothers Migraine-Inducing Textiles Emporium, cleaning by No-one Ever, clientele from Satan Himself.

It was half eleven at night and I, along with most of the other people in the carriage, was trying to get my head down. And pair of rather obnoxious young women were sat in the centre of the carriage, playing loud music, swearing and shouting at the top of their voices.

My fellow passengers seemed to have decided to deal with this the British Way (Writing a strongly worded letter to the editor, but otherwise doing nothing.)

But I had had enough.I politely asked if they'd mind being a bit quieter.They politely told me to fuck off.

So I sat down in the understandably empty table next to theirs, got out my phone, found the most annoying MIDI ringtone I could (That Nokia one.), and put it on repeat, holding it across the aisle about three inches from the ringleader's ear.

"I'll turn it off when you do." I said. "You're keeping me awake and I've got nothing else to do."

Scowling, they stopped.

Of course, I couldn't go to to sleep after that in case they gobbed in my hair or something, but I took a stand, damnit!
(universalpsykopathloves what you've done with your hair., Thu 10 Feb 2011, 13:59,
4 replies)

PGMT reminds me
of an incident from a few years back.

I was on my way out of town and needed to get some cash, so I stopped by an ATM that was on the way. The ATM is built into the front wall of a bank, so you have to park your car and walk up to it.

As it was very early on a Saturday morning, I was a bit surprised to see two girls ahead of me. They were probably in their late teens, cute, fashionably dressed and chattering away as they walked together to the machine. I did the polite thing and waited at a respectful distance of ten or fifteen feet for them to finish their transactions so that I could get my cash.

Only thing is, they weren't really paying much attention to what they were doing, and were utterly absorbed in their conversation about the show they were going to see that night, what they were going to wear, who was going to be there, how Tony owed her some money so she was going to make him buy her a shirt, how the last time she'd seen Paige she was soooo drunk and hanging all over Kevin... and all the while I waited, my patience growing thinner by the second.

I had not had breakfast yet, but I had had a couple of cups of coffee. I felt pressure building in my intestines, partly due to the Belgian beer I'd had the night before, and knew what was coming. So I casually maneuvered myself upwind of the chattering girls and let out a long silent exhalation from the deepest demon-infested sulfurous regions of hell, the sort that burns slightly as it goes and makes you feel like a deflating balloon.

A moment later they stopped in mid sentence and frantically stabbed at the buttons on the machine and wordlessly left as fast as they could, their pert behinds jiggling in their haste, and at last I was free to use the machine.

I sued the council.....
While at a meeting, my motorbike - which had a valid pay-and-display ticket displayed in a second tax disc holder on the bike - got two parking tickets within one hour, which in itself is illegal.

After 9 months appealing against both tickets and obviously winning, I decided I was feb up with Southwark wasting my time. So I sent them an invoice for my time spend on this. When they didn't pay, I took them to the small claims court - AND WON!

And I got a cheque for £300. Hahaha in your face Soutwark!
(camp freddywell, would you look at that!, Thu 10 Feb 2011, 12:27,
13 replies)

Um...you might need a sick bag

Getting more change than I shouldTaking a break cos I couldGetting a seat on the trainGetting home and beating the rain

Making things work when they stopGetting the last can of cold popBeing the first in the queueThat upgrade, the last time I flew

Watching my football team winthat 15 foot lob to the binPutting on a pair of new socksPicking the right numbered box

Getting the last battered codHappily knowing there's no GodWatching my baby niece smileSleeping a short extra while

My other half holding my handthe last ticket, to see my best bandseeing my oldest best friendand getting through the day in the end

The little wins that make up each dayand help me not lose my wayand make it so it's a yearsince I last slipped and picked up a beer.

I am SO sorry for the unexpected burst of sappiness that just came over me.
(scarpeWe Stole Bikes, Tue 15 Feb 2011, 17:28,
5 replies)

Concerts
I (like you, I'm sure) have been to so many concerts / football matches / cricket matches, where the stewards search your bag as you go into the venue. When they find a bottle of Coke(TM), cola, or water, they often confiscate the bottle's lid, so that yobbos can't throw a heavy bottle at the likes of Wayne Rooney, Cheryl Cole or Muttiah Muralitharan. That's all very well if you enjoy flat cola or have a thing for spilling water on your knees, but I don't.

Technology Teacher showdown
Pearoast from a while back - this is a long one - sorry....

I had a technology teacher at school who was an absolute cock. He took an instant dislike to me. In fact, he took an instant dislike to all the lads in the class.

This dashingly-moustachioed middle aged chap in his safety goggles and natty white coat was only interested in the attractive girls in the class, you see, who received lavish guidance and assistance in their projects, whilst he would occasionally just wander over to the table where me and my mates sat and tell us our projects were crap.

This was really frustrating to me, because being a bit of a spod, but not that great at technology, I wanted to do well and really needed quite a bit of guidance to do so. Against my principles, I decided to enlist my dad's help on my project.

My dad, you see, was not only a technology teacher, but also a massive enthusiast for anything which involved building stuff. Most of the furniture in the house when I was growing up was made by him. The porch was built by him. He is the sort of person who has a wall of tiny shelves in the garage, all arranged in exact order and meticulously labelled, so that he'll never be without the right sized screw. And he's not just some handyman-type - he was a GCSE examiner for technology, and had also had a brief apprenticeship in technical drawing when he was a lad. The man seriously considered a career designing ships....

Inevitably, invited to help out on my technology project (designing and making a bathroom organiser thing to keep your shower gels, soaps, etc. on in handy reach), he approached it like a man asked to facilitate a moon landing.

We went down the shops and purchased every variety of soap, shampoo, and shower gel, in order to take accurate weight and dimension measurements. We then designed a holder based on these dimensions, including shaping the holder in a manner which maximised the ease of removing items whilst ensuring they didn't drop out. We investigated the qualities of a selection of materials before settling on plastic as the most durable option, despite the fact that in order to make it my dad had to obtain access to a particular kind of industrial plastic and plastic moulding machine used by a bloke down the pub. Making it involved getting in the car on a Saturday and driving to a workshop on an industrial estate to use the machinery.

The coursework which accompanied the final product included detailed debriefs of every detail of the design, as well as explanatory notes on aspect such as methods of fixing to the wall, and the pros and cons of various plastic types. Not only was this all very detailed, it was checked off against the GCSE marking criteria in order to ensure it would be well-nigh impossible to award me anything less than an A*.

I submitted it. Waited for my results to come back, confident in the knowledge that even this dickhead couldn't possibly justify screwing me over this time. Eventually, the results came back....

D

My dad was, to put it mildly, fucking livid. He contacted the school and was promised the teacher would call back. Apparently, the conversation went something like this:

Dad: 'Hello, I'm Snowy's father, I'm puzzled as to how his technology project, which he spent an enormous amount of time on, only got a D?'

Teacher: 'Well, Mr Snowy, as I'm sure you'll understand, we're trying to work the children up towards their final GCSE projects, and GCSEs marks aren't awarded purely on effort but based on a strict criteria, which we're obliged to follow. I'm sorry that you feel that Snowy has worked so hard to no avail, but unfortunately, there were areas in which his project just didn't warrant higher marks, and it's only fair for me to give an accurate mark now so that he can improve in future and achieve a higher mark in his final project'

Dad: 'Oh, OK. Well, I have the Northern Examination and Assessment Board's GCSE marking criteria for technology projects (which I believe is the board you use) in front of me right now, and a copy of Snowy's project, including model, so would you mind talking me through exactly which of the criteria you felt it didn't fulfil?'

Teacher: 'Eh?'

Dad: 'Well, I think it's only fair...'

Teacher: 'You actually have the marking criteria?'

Dad: 'Yes - I do.'

Teacher: 'Erm.. tell you what, let me have a look over it again and see'

And so I got an A, which dad saw as at best a compromise, knowing full well it should have been an A*.

The irony of it all? When it did come to my final project, my Dad was too principled to help me and I was too principled to ask. and so I got... a D.

Still, it was worth it just to know that my Dad had put this pillock in his place.

And no apologies for length - there's a detailed rationale for it which my Dad will submit on request
(SnowyTheWereRabbitthe Leporid from Hell, Mon 14 Feb 2011, 17:01,
3 replies)

I lived in Edinburgh at one point
And was gruesomely poor. I'd just graduated from uni, and feel obliged to take take the first job I was offered. This was a crappy job temping in an office in Edinburgh's Sighthill (unaffectionately known as Shitehill). I'd stupidly spent my overdraft on drugs and general fucking around, and after a few soul-crushing weeks living in a hostel (no money for a flat: no, not me) and humiliating rejections for flat-shares (think: Shallow Grave), I evetually found a bedsit off Leith Walk. "Grubby" doesn't even begin to describe it: it had that horrible itchy wallpaper, a TV with a fucked tube (all distorted colours at one corner), and a bed. I shared a shower room with a horrible manky damp carpet and a kitchen stocked by the remnant of charity shops from the 1970s.

This was paid weekly with a week's deposit. Just scraping that together left me absolutely broke, living off cornflakes and toast. But anyways, after a few months the job was about to end, and I couldn't find another one in Edinburgh worthy of the name (it was just coming up to Xmas), so I gave up and decided to move back home at the end of the week.

I told the landlord this and said I'd like the deposit back. He said I had to give 2 week's notice. I said I couldn't, as the job would be ending; I'd be leaving at the end of the week. He said he was "sorry" but there was "nothing he could do": he wouldn't give me it back. Knowing full-well that notice periods are usually the same as the payment period, I felt diddled and conned and cheated. It wasn't like I had any money to spare.

I happened to notice that the width of the room was the same as the length of the bed. And my room was on the first floor, but as there were basement flats, there was a gap in front, and a small walkway to reach the main door. (I hope you know what I mean - basically the ground fell away in front of my "ground-floor window" to the basement flats underneath). So, in a desperate search for a petty victory, I put my bags into the hallway, put the bed up against the door, climbed out the window, climbed along the fence to the walkway, went in the front door, got my bags, left my keys behind and left the landlord to try to figure out how to get in.

I'm not proud of this. But it had to be done.
(McChinamanbanned, Fri 11 Feb 2011, 2:54,
Reply)

A-Level Music Tech
Was taught in a cupboard with a few computers and mics in it, a kettle, and the music teacher's fridge. Since we were pretty much stuck in there while the music class was being taught in the "real" room, we used to buy food in the morning and use the fridge, staying there all day.

One afternoon, last session, music teacher storms in from his already rowdy class, roots through the fridge for a desperate last minute sugar rush. There is no chocolate there. In the confusion of snacking goods that ends up in there, it probably got eaten.

He turns around and his eye lights on one of the quieter techies, a guy with the wonderful surname "Fish". And in a bellow which shuts up his music class, our group and probably the entire wing of the school, he bellows, "FIIIIIIISH! WHERE'S MY FLAKE?!!?!"

Cue a very cowed lot of students, a hasty whip around to get the approximate cost of a flaky chocolate bar, and an utterly crushed Fish. It wasn't so much getting yelled at for one of us eating a chocolate bar, it was the fact he took his anger at the music class out on the shyest member of the group. Anyway...

The small victory came the next day, after the humiliation had faded, when we found out that our techie teacher had managed to record the scream of chocolate withdrawal. It found its way, subtly or not so subtly, into nearly every remix we did that year. A few moderators must have been confused to have disks sent to them with titles like "Scarborough Fair [Flakey Fish Mix]

EDIT: Remix in the replies
(Sivvustrolley collision in the fruit aisle led to a jam, Sat 12 Feb 2011, 0:43,
4 replies)